


Getting Revenge

by alynwa



Series: Once Upon a Time [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alynwa/pseuds/alynwa





	Getting Revenge

It was the morning after a night of torrid passion and Napoleon Solo awoke to the hope of an encore before work. Turning over, he found that his date was no longer with him, and the only evidence she’d been there at all was an envelope on the pillow. Solo quickly opened it, expecting a note full of thanks, and a promise of future fun. Instead, the contents of the note caused the color to drain from his face.

 

 _Dear Napoleon,_ the note said, _By the time you read this, I will be gone and your partner, Illya Kuryakin, will be dead._

 

He leapt out of bed to grab his communicator from his inside jacket pocket.  Assembling it quickly, he barked, “Open Channel K!  Priority One!  Illya!  _Illya!_ ”  When no answer was forthcoming, he switched back to the operator.  “Open Channel D!”

 

“Mr. Solo, there is no reason to shout.”

 

“Sorry, Sir, but I have reason to believe Ill, ah, Mr. Kuryakin is in grave danger.  Has he reported to Headquarters yet?”  He could hear Waverly pulling up the sign in sheets on his computer.

 

“No, he has not, but it’s only six – forty AM.  Why do you think Mr. Kuryakin is in danger?”

 

“I, um, I was given a note to that effect by someone who shouldn’t have known who he is or my relationship to him.”  Deep shame filled him as the voice of his partner echoed in his brain with the many warnings that one day, his libido would be the death of them.  “I’m on my way in, could you have someone check his residence and let me know if he’s there?”

 

“Yes.  Someone from Communications will contact you.”  The click signaled his boss had signed off.

 

He grabbed the phone and dialed 9 for the hotel’s Front Desk.  “Yes, good morning.  This is John Slocomb in Room 923.  Did my wife leave yet?”

 

“Good morning, this is Charles.  I came on duty forty – five minutes ago, Mr. Slocomb and there’s only been one woman that’s left the building since I arrived.  Blonde, about five foot five, wearing a light brown dress, dark brown coat and shoes.”

 

“That’s her.  How long ago was that?”

 

“She left about five minutes after I took over.”  He was probably going to say more, but Napoleon had already hung up the phone.

 

He finished dressing and race – walked to the elevator.  He finished reading the note as he waited and then rode down to the ground floor.  _My brothers and I had been searching for years for the man who killed our father.  We had given up all hope until last night when my younger brother spotted the two of you having dinner in the Village.  My job was to insinuate my way into your evening and separate you from him, something I was quite successful at as you well know.  If you’re wondering why you didn’t hear me leave, it’s because I dissolved a sleeping pill into your drinks.   For what it’s worth, you’re almost as good in bed as I am.  Try to remember that when you’re mourning your partner; that you had really, really good sex while he was dying._

 

He crumpled the paper and jammed it into his pocket.  The knot that had shown up in his chest when he read the first sentence tightened and threatened to choke him.  His communicator went off as soon as he got into his car.  “Has Kuryakin been located?” he snapped.

 

“We think so, Napoleon.”  He recognized the voice of his and Illya’s assistant, Sara Jackson.*  “I took a chance and activated the homing device I had installed in the heel of one of his shoes.  He must be wearing them because the monitor is showing the shoe is in Astoria, Queens on 14th Street and 31st Avenue.”

 

“Remind me to put you in for a raise, Sara.  You’re the best!  Notify me immediately if the location changes.  Tell Mr. Waverly what you told me and that I’m requesting a Strike Team meet me at that location.  Solo out.”

 

An hour later found Napoleon walking toward an abandoned building.  He had instructed the Team leader to keep his agents at a discreet distance until Napoleon called for them.  He noticed an alley behind the building and ducked down it.  He came upon a door that had obviously been jimmied open.  Pulling his weapon, he opened the door and stepped inside. 

 

He was standing in what at some point had probably been a kitchen, but vandals had probably broken into the walls and stolen all the pipes years ago, from the looks of it.  Quietly, he moved farther into the house.  A sound caught his attention and he strained to hear it better.

 

There it was again; it was definitely the sound of fists meeting flesh, followed by the unmistakable sound of Illya’s voice emitting a string of curses in several languages.  Though furious that his partner was being beaten, he actually trembled with relief that the Russian was still alive.  He thought briefly of contacting the Strike Team, but the continuous beating made him decide to see if he could handle the situation himself.

 

As he moved closer, he could hear two other voices speaking calmly, so calmly that one might have thought they were discussing a book except they were talking about the best way to elicit the most pain for Illya.

 

“Punch him there.  Again.  Again!  Move over, I want to use my razor to carve my name on his back.”

 

Napoleon had heard enough.  He stepped into the room and was instantly enraged.  Illya was shirtless tied spread-eagled to a bedspring.  Blood was oozing from cuts on his arms, chest and face.  Bruises had blossomed everywhere across his torso and his eyes were swollen shut.  “Stop!  Drop the weapon and stand back!”

 

The men recovered from their initial shock at seeing Napoleon pointing a gun at them.  “You’re not going to keep us from getting our revenge!” one of them screamed before lunging at him while the other sliced one of Illya’s wrists. 

 

Napoleon sidestepped and fired twice, killing both men instantly.  “I think I just did,” he muttered as he moved to his partner’s side.  He grabbed the razor from where it had fallen and cut a strip of fabric from the dead man’s shirt and wrapped it tightly around Illya’s bleeding wrist.  “Don’t worry, Illya, I’m here and I’m going to get you help.”  He assembled his communicator.  “Strike Team Leader!  Targets neutralized.  Call for an UNCLE ambulance and a clean-up crew to report to this site immediately!”  He began to use the blade to cut through the bindings.  “Don’t worry, Illya, help is on the way,” he said to the now unconscious man.

 

Hours later, Napoleon was sitting at his partner’s bedside in Medical watching the nurse take his vitals.  When she was finished, she smiled at both of them and took her leave.  The Russian’s eyes were still swollen shut, so Napoleon took hold of Illya’s hand. “Illya, can you tell me what happened?”

 

Illya opened his mouth and coughed, prompting the CEA to take a spoonful of ice chips and touch the blond’s lips with it.  He sucked some in gratefully and when the ice melted he said, “I finished my coffee and left the restaurant about ten minutes after you left with that woman.  The next thing I knew I was struck on the back of the head.  I woke up where you found me.”

 

“Two men were there; they never said their given names, but they said that their father was Joseph Smalls.”

 

“Joseph Smalls?  And who is Joseph Smalls?”

 

“Apparently, he was part of Harvey Black’s security team and was caught in the explosions that destroyed the lab.**   They knew their father was a THRUSH member and were able to find out that we were the team credited with the lab’s destruction.  They had been looking for us, me in particular, for years.  They informed me that they intended to beat and cut me to death.”  His mouth quirked into a grin.  “I am grateful you found me before they could succeed.  They obviously saw an opportunity when you took your leave.  Are they being interrogated?”

 

“Ah, no.  They’re dead.  I killed them both.”  He hung his head and took Illya’s hand in both of his.  “I have a confession to make: That woman I left with is the sister of those men.  Her part in all of this was to get me away from you and it worked.  I am so sorry.  This is all my fault.”   He pulled the note from his pocket.  “She left this on the pillow this morning.”  He read the note aloud and then tore it up.  “Illya, I have to tell you; my heart dropped to the floor when I read this.  If they had succeeded…”

“They did not, moy droog.”

 

“But they could have!  You would have died because of me and my inability to keep it in my pants!  I am so sorry!”

 

“Do not blame yourself, moy brat.  It is what it is; if they had not found me today, they would have found me one day.  My concern now is the sister.  She is still out there.  If she was feeling vengeful before, there is no telling what she is capable of now.”

 

Napoleon’s face hardened.  “It’s not often that I want to kill someone, but I swear to God, Illya, the next time I see that woman will be the last day of her life.  I promise you that.”

 

“Tovarisch, taking things personally is not the way to handle problems.  It could cloud your judgement.”

 

“I didn’t start this, Illya.  But I will finish it.”

 

 

*Sara Jackson is introduced in my tale, “Sara Jackson, the Assistant from UNCLE”

 

**ref. my tale “He Ain’t Heavy”

 

 


End file.
